


'Remind me never to spend Christmas at your house'

by Oriens



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendeavour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriens/pseuds/Oriens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Endeavour Morse did not enjoy Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Remind me never to spend Christmas at your house'

Endeavour Morse did not enjoy Christmas. Perhaps it was his mother’s Puritanical streak surfacing, or perhaps it was merely the prospect of the pitying looks he knew he would receive if he revealed that he would be spending the season alone. He did not mention that he would be keeping steady company with a bottle of Scotch and his best records, for he did not feel this would improve matters.

Oxford wears winter with her customary slovenly beauty, but it is a cruel season in that city. Austere edifices of grey and yellow stone do not lend themselves to cosiness and comfort. December sleet was beating an intermittent tattoo on the window of Oxford City Police HQ, and Morse shivered unconsciously in his seat. The force was whittled down to the bare minimum over the holiday, and today, the day before Christmas Eve, was the last he would be working that year. 

Jakes’ spidery handwriting swam for a moment on the report he was typing. Looking round the deserted office, he noticed for the first time that someone had tried to make the office appear a little more festive, by means of a string of tinsel around the investigation board, and one or two paper snowflakes taped to the dividing glass. Morse chuckled wryly to himself and pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly overcome with the feeling that he was 8 years old again and at his tiny local primary school. Unwilling to go home at the end of the day, he would often linger, struggling with a book of crosswords or doodling patterns on the outside of his exercise books.

The door behind him opened, and he started. Fred Thursday, already in hat and coat, paused by his desk to wind a hand-knitted scarf round his neck. 

‘Still here?’

‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Jakes wanted me to get this report on yesterday’s break-and-enter typed before clocking off.’

‘Jolly good.’ The older man nodded in assent. ‘You going home for Christmas?’

‘No, sir.’ Morse looked at him expectantly, hoping to be allowed to finish his work as quickly as possible.

‘There’s just one other thing.’ Morse’s shoulders sagged, imperceptibly. It had been a week of menial slog, and he should have known better than to expect to be able to leave at five.

Thursday placed a paper bag unceremoniously on the young constable’s desk. Inspecting its contents, Morse turned to him, bemused. ‘How did you-?’

‘Heard it on the wireless the other week. It sounded like your sort of thing.’

Morse gazed in amazement at the gift – a much-coveted LP of Spring Symphony by Benjamin Britten. ‘Th-thanks,’ he managed to stutter. Thursday nodded, curtly. 

‘If you should happen to find yourself in want of company over the next few days, Mrs Thursday cooks to feed an army. All right? Good night.’

His footsteps echoed down the hall.


End file.
